


Welcomed By Others

by azryal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, QUITE A BIT OF SEX, Sex, blood sacrifice, funeral rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years in Kattegat, the unthinkable happens.</p><p>It would be unthinkable to do anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcomed By Others

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties. Dating, ages, children....yes, there's a lot of stuff that mixes between the show and the legends.
> 
> Still, I hope that the story reads true. 
> 
> Ragnar makes only the briefest of appearances. I think, I pray, that his presence is still felt, throughout.

Of all things said of Ragnar Lothbrok, and there were many, still and cold were never a part. Always moving, even when not in motion he seemed to thrum with silent energy. Always warm, sometime hot enough to melt the icy plains of the Niflieim. The two parts of him were so intrical to his nature, to his very being, that they would be unnatural upon his countenance.

Yet, he was cold. And still.

The winter had slowed his putrefaction, so his face still had its shape, his body retained his form. The quiet, though, disturbed even the heartiest men. Most went silent, some stubbornly refused to wipe or lower their eyes.

Athelstan lost his meal, almost immediately.

When he turned back to face the litter which bore his master, he felt no shame in his weakness. He felt no sorrow when Lagertha began singing, her voice breaking only once. He felt no rage but saw it in Bjorn’s eyes. Ivar’s, too. He knew they would sail soon. After their father was gone.

All he felt was cold, as if it spread from Ragnar’s body like the first frost. Without the heat of his spirit all the world’s warmth was leeched away. Athelstan’s heart felt trapped in ice, felt sharp talons freeze as they drove into his living flesh, leaving him dead but standing, breathing. The tears on his face were as hot as oil over the fire, but they did not warm him.

Others joined Lagertha’s song, growing louder as voices mingled and the words carried up the hills. Into the sky, to find their way to Asgard. It was notice that a warrior would be coming to join them in Valhalla. Athelstan did not join them.

 

 

When they gathered in the great hall, silent with grief, hollow-eyed and quietly weeping, Lagertha sat strong. “How many days has it been?”

“Nine, my lady,” Arne answered, falling to his knees.

Nine days, it had been.  _Nine days…_

“Who will ready his ship? Who will call for the Angel of Death?”

Floki stepped forward. Even he was subdued, his otherworldly buoyancy dampened. “I will, of course.”

“I will help,” Bjorn added, nodding his head in respect. His eyes were dry, but his mouth was twisted and none would question his true feelings. Grown now, with his own wife and child, he stood to inherit the earldom. But first, he would kill the man who took his father from this life. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind.

Floki bowed to him, then to Lagertha. His eyes met hers and he gave her a soft, sad smile, then stepped back.

“Ivar, will you prepare the sacrifices?”

“I will, Mother,” Ivar answered, mostly winning his own battle. Still too young to marry, but ready and willing to brave the waters for vengeance. He was so much like his father that it hurt Athelstan to look upon him.

“I say to you, our Lord would have wanted as fine a feast as we could present.” There were murmurs of agreement, nods and fond smiles. “As we, his family prepare him for his journey, let the rest of you see to our tables. Make it one Odin himself will regret not attending,” Lagertha said, her gaze moving slowly over all faces.

Then her eyes fell on Athelstan. Her voice was low, yet carried to all corners of the hall. “Who will go with him?”

It must be asked. It was their way.

“I will, my lady.” He said the words as loud as he could. They were still little more than a whisper.

Lagertha rose, regal and beautiful, powerful and graceful, practical and fair. A ruler, among any people, in any land. She stepped off of the dais and came to stand before him. He did not bow, or fall to his knee, and she did not admonish him for it. They were too much of the same mind and heart in this moment.

“You do this willingly and with all knowledge of what is to come?” He could see tears in her eyes. There were none in his own.

“I do.”

“Why?”

Her question surprised him. In truth, it surprised all, as the shuffles and rustling of cloaks around him attested.  He could pay no heed to their discomfort. He saw in Lagertha’s face the true question. “My lady…”he began, then paused.

He felt her hand slip into his.

“Lagertha.” He only called her this in their shared quarters. “I have received much joy serving you. There are a wealth things I would have never known without your thread in my cloth. My life has been a wonder. Your children have grown fine and fair, as just and strong as you. You are blessed by Odin and Freya, and you will go on to know much happiness.”

The grip on his hand grew painful. It helped him find the right words.

“You will make Ragnar very proud.” He touched her face, and she covered his hand with her other, pressed her cheek to his palm. “I am not that strong, my lady. Already the sun has dimmed.”

“Even a flower can survive an early frost,” she whispered. She would lose them both, and the knowledge pained him. He knew she would feel the summer wind on her face again. He also knew that his heart would never fully thaw, and to send Ragnar to Valhalla without a favored slave was dishonor they would never bestow. The choice was made.

“He is my sun, Lagertha,” he said, as quiet as she, no longer able to speak without tears. “I cannot live without his touch.”

Lagertha looked at him for the space of a breath, then her face fell. She pulled him into a fierce embrace, her tears falling on his throat, and he held her as she screamed into his shoulder. It was just the two of them for this moment, bound together by love and now, torn asunder.

She released him abruptly and stepped away, back to the dais. She stood before the high seat and turned to face the assembled. Though her cheeks wore proof of her distress, when she spoke again, her voice was strong. “So be it. You will be made ready.”

Still standing, she lifted her chin, let one side of her mouth curl. “Ready this feast. We shall wake the Gods with our proclamation that Ragnar is coming.” Lagertha said, her gaze moving slowly over all faces. There were murmurs of agreement, nods and fond smiles. “Then get to work! We have only two days!”

 

 

Athelstan was led away, left alone in his room. His door was barred, as if to keep him jailed. As if he would leave now. As if he would want to.

He lay atop his covers, his only light the fire from the brazier and thought of nothing. He watched shadows, watched the flames, and fingered the trim of his tunic, his mind blank a-purpose. It seemed a long while he was there, and when his door opened, he could see through the window that the sky was red before the view was blocked.

“Gyda!” he cried, surprised to see her, and well-pleased to receive her embrace.

“Athelstan! Mother told me…I wasn’t in the hall…how could you do it?” She was crying again, at least as hard as she had when her father was brought to them.

Holding her thus, it was hard to forget that she was soon to be married. She was so slight, so gentle, and it was joked more than once that she was more Athelstan’s child than Ragnar’s. “ _Gledi,_ ” he called her, had for years, for she was gladness incarnate. “My sweet  _Gledi_. You know why I have done this.”

“But you are no longer a slave! It should not have been asked of you!” she sobbed.

“And who else will go? Your mother?”

“A slave, Athelstan! Let him have one of the slaves!” She grabbed his arms and shook him, the strength in her hands most assuredly come from Ragnar.

He stroked her hair, pressed until she lay her head upon his shoulder. “I like to think he would not want another in my place. Did he have a favorite?”

Her sobs quieted as she considered this. “No,” she answered, defeated. “He would want you. He always wanted you, from the start.”

“And that is why I am going,  _Gledi_. For I want to be beside him, as well.”

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. Her breath hitched. “Even now?”

“Even now. I love him, Gyda, so much. I love you, too, but your life is just beginning, and without Ragnar, my life would only be half-lived. Better to follow him now, I think, than waste days with regret,” he said, his thumbs brushing away her tears.

They spilled anew. “I love you, too. I will miss you. Gods, I will miss you.”

Athelstan put his forehead to hers. “And I, you. Don’t let your summers pass you, Gyda.”

“Death will not erase your name, Athelstan,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

They held each other a moment, and then Athelstan gently pushed her away. “You should go.”

“I brought you food and drink,” she said, regaining her composure. She went through the door and brought back a platter laden with duck, bread, dried fruits, wine and ale, even the small honey-sweetened flat cakes Gyda had loved as a child. “I made those for you,” she told him, smiling.

So much like then, she sounded, that it ruined his brave face. He wept, and wondered if his tears would ever stop.

The wine helped, and Gyda stayed to silently ply him with it until he’d calmed. Then she kissed his forehead and left without looking back.

 

 

He ate the bread and fruit, tasted the cakes, and finished all of his wine and ale. Then he slept, deep and dreamless. For that he was thankful.

Much of the next day was spent alone. It seemed, though, that the children had taken it upon themselves to see to his care while he waited. Bjorn came midday, bringing more drink and another platter of food. He cast a baleful eye to the uneaten meat from the night before. “You’re wasting that,” he scolded.

He stood over Athelstan, arms folded and scowling, until Athelstan laughed. “I cannot decide who you look like just now, your mother or your father.”

Bjorn’s lips twitched. “Pick the one that frightens you most.”

Athelstan laughed again, having never felt so grateful for Bjorn’s stern, serious manner. A manner he knew masked a warm and welcoming heart. “Oh, your mother, there is no doubt.”

“You will eat it all,” Bjorn stated, taciturn as always, but his body loosened and he leaned against the wall.

“I will, you need not worry.”

Bjorn waited until Athelstan had taken a sip of ale to speak again. “Are you frightened?”

Where the boy had been curious, the man was insatiable. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Athelstan thought on it, staring into the golden cup. “I’m terrified,” he confessed, taking another drink. “Of the pain, of the ritual. In light of those things, dying seems the easiest part.”

Bjorn was silent.

“Do you think less of me?” Athelstan asked, without looking up.

Bjorn came closer and squatted before him. He put a firm hand on Athelstan’s wrist. “Only a fool is not afraid,” he said when their eyes met.

“The brave man faces his foes despite his fear,” Athelstan finished. He covered Bjorn’s fingers with his. “Thank you for letting me take care of you.”

“You tried, I’ll grant you.”

“You wield your father’s humor well, Bjorn,” Athelstan said, smiling.

Bjorn grinned back, but it faltered when he spoke. “I wish you would see my son grow.”

“I will watch, be certain of that.”

Serious now, Bjorn took the cup from his hand and set it aside. Then he took both of Athelstan’s hands in his, kissed the back of each one, and stared hard into Athelstan’s eyes. The look spoke where he could not, and Athelstan felt nothing but love.

Nodding slowly, Athelstan bent and pressed his lips to Bjorn’s head.

Then Bjorn left, without a backwards glance.

 

 

He was surprised most by Siggy. She came with his meal in the early dark, followed by two slaves bearing a heavy chest. “You must eat, so that you can be bathed,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

“What is in the chest?” he asked, as she moved around his room, taking in all she saw.

“Your finery for tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Athelstan said, and reached for his wine.

She sat facing him on his bed, not too close. “I remember you, your face, that day.”

“What day?” But he thought he knew.

“My husband’s funeral.”

Athelstan nodded.

“You were horrified. Disgusted. I think you were torn between fleeing for the woods and taking up arms to save that girl,” she said.

“You are not wrong.” Athelstan finished the ale and reached for the wine.

“And now you are in her place.”

“Yes.” He wondered what she wanted from him as he took up the bread.

She leaned closer. “Do you feel the same now?”

Athelstan put his bread aside. “I was a different man, then.”

“Different how?” Her tone was only a little scornful.

He turned to face her, drawing his knee up on the furs. “I was innocent, of all things. I did not know death could show you what is sweetest in life. I did not know love.”

She frowned and tilted her head.

“I did not know what loss of that love could do to a man.”

He reached for her hand, took it, and pressed it between his palms. “Or a mother,” he told her, gently.

Her eyes moved over him, from his braided hair to his face, down his chest and over the intricate weaving at the neck of his tunic. “Ragnar wears the same weave,” she said, lifting her free hand to touch it.

“Yes, and Lagertha,” Athelstan answered. The special cloth had been made by Gyda two years past, a gift for midsummer.

“I envy you,” she whispered, withdrawing both hands to rest in her lap.

He could not say he knew her heart, but he could guess. Her sons were dead, her husband killed, and yet she lived. And here he sat, waiting to join Ragnar. “I’m sorry.”

Siggy grabbed his knee. “Do not feel sorry. Take instead a message to my husband. Tell him…tell him I miss him. Tell him I love him still.”

Athelstan acknowledged this with a nod.

She gave him a brief smile and stood. “Eat your food. You will be fetched for the bath within the hour.”

 

 

This was not bathing as Athelstan had known it.

He was attended by the same two slaves who brought the chest. They took him to the bathing hut, which was already thick with scented steam, and made to disrobe. Every inch of his body was scrubbed, rinsed, scrubbed again, and scraped free of hair. His beard was shorn, the ends of his hair trimmed. Even his nails, on both hands and feet, were tended. Then he was wrapped in a luxurious robe and returned to his room to be rubbed all over with sweet oils. When they pressed drink upon him, he tried to refuse, but they told him it was part of the ritual, a brew special made for to help him with the coming trials. He drank it, and went to his bed at their urging.

The draught did not make him sleep, though he had hoped it would. It did make him not mind being awake, however, and he lay in the fire lit room, drifting in thought and memory while his body prickled and trembled. The robe grew too heavy, too hot, and he lazily opened it, shifting out of its arms and lying atop it.

He heard the door open, but found he cared not to cover himself. There was weight beside on the bed and he opened his eyes to see Lagertha, hair framed by fire and skin aglow, kissed by gold. “Gerta,” he mumbled, for that was all he could say. Both the potion and her beauty leadened his tongue.

“Hush,” she hissed, taking his mouth with hers.

She had always been voracious, easily a match for Ragnar in lust. Her lips were soft, yet they demanded, took from him his desire without a thought to leave even a drop. There was always more, brewed by smiles and touches, not so secret since they had moved into the great hall. Their triad had been accepted by forced exposure, and it was not long before they were able to kiss and proclaim their affections openly and without shame. The words declaring him not a man were spoken no more. He had Lagertha’s obvious hunger for him to thank for that.

Her hand moved to hold him, stroke him to fever, without ending their kiss. He moaned and thrust against her palm in eager submission. He was hers to command and so he waited without touching her. When she stood and dropped her garment, a shimmering wrap of crimson befitting an earl’s wife, he held his breath.

Lagertha straddled his head, her thighs pressed on his shoulders and her sweet, wet sex parted before his face. “Feast, Athelstan,” she crooned, slipping her fingers into his hair to pull his mouth to her.

Hungry for her taste, for the feel of her clenching on his tongue, he obeyed. She stayed aloft there as he partook, her hips jerking and grinding until climax released her juices into his waiting mouth. He was so hard he hurt but he kept his hands twisted tight in the furs. Lagertha slid down his body and rested, cleaning his face with her kisses and setting his chest alight with painful tugs on his nipples.

At once, she pushed up with her palms on his shoulders and undulated her hips to take his cock within her. His cry was not so loud but she covered his mouth. “You must stay quiet. If they find us they will bathe you again, and it is my wish that you take my taste with you to Valhalla.”

He nodded, looking into her eyes. Her love was fierce, the making of it full of biting, scratching and pinching, and he kept his silence throughout. She rode him as she would a stallion, taking his hands to her breasts, her hair brushing his thighs. When he could no longer control his body, she took his thrusts with great gasps and came. Her bruising grip on his wrists, the slippery contours of her inner walls, and the soft cry of his name spurred his seed to spill and he followed her into bliss.

They were silent after. She still lie atop him, kept his softening cock in her until it slipped free. When Athelstan caught his breath he whispered, “Ragnar will be pleased.”

She propped up on one elbow and slapped him. It was not hard, just enough to sting. “Idiot,” she admonished, caressing the mark she left. “This was not for Ragnar. This was for us. If the Gods are willing, I will have a pale, raven haired babe in my arms come the harvest. This is my wish, that I would have something left of you to hold and love in your absence.”

“Lagertha,” he sighed, and, overcome, wrapped her tight in his arms. He wept into her hair, let her comfort him when it should be he who offered solace. But it had always been their way that she be the stronger, the caretaker, and he joyfully accepted her love as she would give it.

She kissed him once more, ran her fingers through his long, silver-streaked hair, and left without saying good-bye. 

 

 

He must have slept, for morning greeted him with sounds of furious activity. His door opened and Floki entered, bearing a plate and a carafe.

“I thought you might like to ask some questions,” he said with a shrug.

This struck Athelstan as funny and he laughed as he pulled on his robe. “After all this time, you believe I still have questions?”

Floki grinned and handed him the plate. “After all this time, the one thing I can count on is your questions.”

Athelstan laughed again and it felt so good he couldn’t stop. He laughed until his face was wet. “Thank you, Floki, for reminding me that I can still do that.”

“You must never forget how to laugh, child. No matter what fate decides for you,” the man said. He winked and poured a generous amount of ale into Athelstan’s cup.

“Was this my fate, Floki? All along, was this where I was headed?” The words fell from Athelstan’s lips without pause, for the question had haunted him since he saw Ragnar’s body upon the litter.

“Do you think you would be here if you had not gone to their bed?” Floki sat on the floor and waited for the answer.

Drinking, finding it to be the same drink as the night prior, Athelstan thought. “I don’t think I could have ever resisted them. They love too purely. It was as if Ragnar knew the day he took me, and would not live without me.”

“ _Ja_ , he loved you from that moment. And more than that, he knew Lagertha and the children would, too. He had some sight, being from Odin’s blood, and he did not squander it,” Floki said.

By the end of the meal, all of the drink was gone and Athelstan was sitting beside him on the floor. They rested their backs against the bed, legs stretched out before them. “Will I see him again? Truly?”

“Now is not the time to question your faith, priest,” Floki teased, nudging him with a shoulder.

Athelstan smiled, but it held more than a touch of fear. “It is not my faith that I question, but the humor of the Gods. Would they keep me from him, being foreign and…and…not wholly a man, in their eyes.”

“Ragnar bears their glory. They will not deny him.” Floki’s words were simple and confident. He cast a slanted gaze to Athelstan. “Do you doubt Ragnar’s want of you?”

Athelstan met that stare and held it. He saw a glimmer, some inner light that was Floki’s own and no other’s, and shook his head. “No. Ragnar would want me beside him.”

“Then what causes this fear?”

“Your trickster god. Your namesake.”

At this, Floki laughed and laughed. Athelstan did not join. “You think him like your devil? Your  _Satan_?”

Looking down at his hands, Athelstan said, “It is his way, isn’t it?”

“Bah! You should know better by now!” Floki cried, standing. “For eight years now, you have questioned my every word. You asked for answers only the Gods themselves would know, that no mortal would dare voice. You doubted and balked and only at the end do you believe in the power of the  _Aesir_.”

“His tricks are played on the other gods, hmm? He cares for us on the  _Midgaard_ only when it causes strife within the  _Aesir._  He seeks not to rule us, as does your Satan, merely uses us as pawns in his games.” Floki straddled his knees, sitting on them. “If he touched your life, it was when Ragnar took you. For you,  _Christian_ , have made for a great game.”

“What do you mean?” Athelstan asked, curious, if confused.

“In you, he opened the minds of those here, showed them what lay outside of Odin’s grasp. There you were, a mere child, standing before the likes of Ragnar and Haraldson with nary a plea.”

“There was plenty of pleading, Floki,” Athelstan interrupted, recalling his early days in Kattegat.

Floki frowned, then grinned. “Yes, you begged a time or two, but no more. And it was not out of pride that you begged, but out of your hunger for knowledge. Always wanting more, always doubting our words.”

“I did not understand. Sometimes I still don’t.”

“But you never stopped  _asking_. In truth, you saved this place from devouring itself. Haraldson’s ways would have driven Ragnar and men of his ilk away, leaving only those who thought the same. They would have never dreamed to go beyond their borders. You bridged a gap between this small circle of land and the rest of the world. You showed them ways that both mystified and frightened, and yet you were _so much like them_. Not a beast, nor elf, no troll or giant from the other Realms, no. You were just a boy with endless questions. A lost lamb in search of warmth and safety.”

Athelstan stared at him, speechless.

“You were Loki’s best and greatest trick, Athelstan. He will give you whatever you ask.”

It took many moments for Athelstan to find his words again. “You say ‘them’. Aren't you one of ‘them’?”

Floki smiled, secretively. “Ragnar got the plans for the boat from me. Where do you think I got them from?”

The light in his eyes seemed to sparkle, change from green to silver in an instant. Athelstan’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Putting a finger to Athelstan’s lips, Floki whispered, “Shhhh.”

 

 

It felt as if time had stopped.

Athelstan had been at many a funeral now. Never had he seen everyone stop their drinking, sparring, and gaming to watch the sacrifice be led to the tent. He felt a nervous giggle start in his chest and only just contained it. Inwardly, he thanked all the Gods for the drink, for he would have never made the walk without it.

He knew now why they had shaved him. Why when they opened the trunk he thought they’d made a mistake. His clothes were not a woman’s clothes, but neither were they a proper free man’s. His tunic was too long, to finely woven. His leg wrappings too high. There were no trousers. His hair was left unbraided save one that held the top and let to drape down the left side of his face. He was given no cloak, no over tunic, and was made to brave the ice from both winter’s breath and the stares that followed him. The word wasn’t said, for to accuse was to face judgment yourself. It was thought in more than one mind. Of that, Athelstan was sure.

He was glad of the strong hands of the men who escorted him. He was trembling from more than cold.

The tent flaps were before him and he waited while one of the men untied the closures. It was held aloft for him to enter and he was more than happy to step out of the snow. The felt slippers were already ruined. They would not give him proper shoes.

For a moment he simply looked around, not completely surprised by its luxury, but still. It was beautiful, floored with thick carpets, draped with blankets and shawls to keep out the chill. There was a small bed behind a sheer partition, and a low table with a lamp and more drink and food. He was to give it to the men as they came, with a bite of food, before their part of the ritual. He knew to take as much as he could of the ale, too, for it imbued one with carelessness. Lack of concern of what was to come.

The thought of it, servicing six men while the only one he’d known thus awaited the pyre, twisted his stomach. He was afraid. So afraid and so angry. He wanted to rail at them, scream and fight and show them that, yes, Ragnar  _had_  taught him to use the sword and axe. He wanted to escape this place and run and run and…

A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped.

“You look lost, little lamb,” Floki teased.

And it was more than Athelstan could take. His knees gave way and he would have found the floor in a hurry if Floki had not caught him about the waist. They knelt together as the man’s hand guided Athelstan’s head to his shoulder.

“I can’t,” he cried. “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Floki insisted, fingers tugging on his hair. “Even so, you spoke the words before the entire hall. If you fled, they would catch you. You would be killed and buried a coward, and you would never see Ragnar again.”

Athelstan choked and swallowed, the bitter taste of vomit filling his mouth. Floki rubbed his back for a time, soothing the sickness. Easing his fears, if only for a moment. “Are you the first?” he asked, face still pressed to the man’s neck.

“I have that honor.” The smile was there in his voice.

Pulling away to look into his face, Athelstan studied him. Only wisps of hair remained on his head, but there seemed to be no more aging in his face. His eyes were still kind, his smile still playful and wicked. He was still tall and slim. It would be no hardship to lie with this man. “And…you’re sure…” he began, only to have his question kissed away.

Floki’s kiss was lovely. It warmed him, settled him, and offered comfort as it stirred a fire in his belly.

“I am sure,” the man said when their lips parted.

For the third time that day, Athelstan could not speak. Floki laughed.

“I took no vows, and have had ample time to hone my skills.”

Athelstan blushed and reached for his cup. “Drink to the life of my master.” If his voice cracked, Floki paid no heed.

“May his pleasures be great in Valhalla.”

Floki took one small bite of the bread and finished the cup himself. He hummed a tune as he refilled it, something light and cheerful. “You drink now, wash down your tears, and let me show you my other talents.”

Staring up at the tent pole, Athelstan learned what years of ‘honing’ meant to Floki. His wrappings were unwound with great care and lavish attention to his thighs, his feet, and the tender spot behind his knees. The hands that pushed the tunic up and over his head traced every part of him, made him tremble and sigh with their surety. Floki took him on the carpets, and when Athelstan began to arch up to greet his thrusts, he whispered into Athelstan’s ear, “Tell your master I do this because I love him.”

Athelstan came with a gasp, feeling the other shudder as he found his own release.

The ritual had begun. 

 

 

Floki left him on the bed, wrapped in a warm blanket. There had been one more kiss, after which Athelstan had been reluctant to let him go. “Thank you,” he breathed, clutching the man tightly. “I’ll miss you.”

He fully expected Floki to leave without speaking, as everyone else had. Goodbye meant little to those expecting to spend eternity in Asgard. Yet, when Floki pried his hands away and stood, he smiled, winked, and said, “We’ll meet again. You’ll see.”

Athelstan had managed a small returning smile and watched him leave.

Kauko entered just a few moments later. The man’s shoulders nearly touched the slanted walls where the tent narrowed. Athelstan made to rise, to pass the ale and bread to him, but was waved back down. “I know what to do,  _vaettir,”_  he said, not unkindly. He drank and ate and saluted after. “Tell your master I do this in love for him.”

Even if Kauko called him ‘spirit’, it seemed he bore Athelstan no ill will. In fact, he was particularly gentle. The enormous hands were careful on his hips and he bade Athelstan mount him instead of being crushed beneath his weight. It was so strangely sweet that Athelstan felt the urge to please more than was required. He squeezed inside, rocked his hips with abandon, and was gratified to hear the grunts and groans as he wrung them out. When Kauko’s fingers tightened on his thighs, Athelstan did not begrudge the bruises he left. Especially when the man kissed them in apology.

It was Arne next. Easy with a smile and a jest, always laughing, even when solemnity should hold sway. He dropped to one knee before Athelstan and grinned. “Tell your master I do this in love for him. I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” Athelstan’s brows rose.

Arne took one of his hands and laid a small piece of bone upon his palm. It was flat and smooth, and bore a delicate rune carving on one side. As Athelstan examined it, Arne took his ale and bread. “It’s  _wunjo_. I thought it appropriate.”

“Only you would think of joy on such a day,” Athelstan said, warmly.

“And why not joy? You will be with Ragnar, Hagbard to Signy, as the tales tell. Is that not reason to be joyous?”

Athelstan cast him a jaundiced look.

“Freya and Od?” When no reply came, Arne grinned again and said, “Perhaps I’ll stop there.”

“I think that would be wise.” Athelstan felt better for the jest, and put a hand on Arne’s shoulder as the other stood. “Did you carve it?”

“From a piece of a stag’s antler, months ago.”

“I don’t think they will let me take it into the fire,” Athelstan said, sadly.

Arne gave him that saucy grin once more. “Tuck it into your windings.”

Athelstan looked grave for a moment, then burst into laughter. It was then that Arne kissed him. Athelstan returned the embrace whole-heartedly.

Lief approached as Arne left, stoic and formal. He performed his duty in near silence, which unnerved Athelstan and tempted him to mock the stern face Lief wore. In the end, he kept his peace, for he felt that Lief would not welcome the brevity. Their exchange was brief, the coupling carried out in practical and tradesman-like precision. It left Athelstan in low spirits.

As he took up his blanket once more, he heard a whisper at the back of the tent.

“Athelstan? Are you alone? It’s Ivar.”

He rushed to the corner and dropped to his knees. “Ivar! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to come before. My duties kept me away.” There was a press against the tent wall, slightly larger than a dinner plate.

Placing his hand there, Athelstan felt the outline of fingers and palm. He lined his own up to match and returned the pressure. “It is good to hear your voice.”

“I wish everyone felt as you. The men only have the feast in mind and getting them to assist has been a trial even my father would find vexing,” Ivar groused, though it was a mild discontent.

Athelstan smiled. “Use your mother’s tone and your father’s stare and I daresay you will have no more trouble.”

Ivar’s soft laugh lifted his mood. “You always believed I was a rightful son and treated me as such. I thank you, Athelstan, for welcoming me and treating me kindly.”

“Ragnar expected nothing less. I would not disappoint him,” Athelstan said. He felt the flex against his palm and returned it, as close to a friendly clasp as they could come. “You were a good boy, Ivar. You have become a good man.”

There was an audible breath. Hushed, hurried words followed. “I am being sought. But…I wanted you to know, there will ever be a hole in my heart, for loss of you.” Then the hand was gone.

“You’re lax in your duties,  _hlautgif,”_  a voice said behind him.

Sven was new to Ragnar’s coterie, a wanderer who had been welcomed as a warrior. He swore his fealty, offered his sword to the protection of the village, but his price was paid by every low-born and slave within his reach. He openly admired Ragnar’s family, his fine hall, and, most of all, his pretty  _ergi._

Athelstan stood and rushed to greet him. “Drink this…”

Sven took the cup and finished it quickly. “Tell your master what I do here, for love of him,” he sneered.

Athelstan would have corrected him, had he the chance. But then he thought the other said it a-purpose when he was forced to his knees. Cruel fingers dug into his lips, drawing blood. The vigor with which his mouth was fucked bled him more and when he tried to push away, the grip was transferred to his hair to hold and guide. The man pushed too hard and when Athelstan gagged, he pulled away to deliver a hard slap.

“And here I thought you skilled at whoring.”

Athelstan was bent over the low table and held with a painful grip on his neck. “Wait, please…”

Sven was hateful, full of spite and unrelenting. “That’s better. When one begs, there is no time to mourn.”

Though he tried, Athelstan could not keep all of his pain behind his teeth. When he tried to be unresponsive, Sven struck him. If his cries did not ring loud enough, the blows fell on Athelstan’s sensitive cock. It seemed to take forever for the man to finish, and by the end, his tears had formed a pool on the table beneath his cheek.

As Sven adjusted his clothing, Athelstan’s anger sought recompense. “Remember this goes with me to Valhalla. You can be sure Ragnar will know.”

“Good!” Sven snarled, taking Athelstan’s hair in a firm grip and yanking, hard. “Tell him I will have everything that is his. I will take his woman to wife, have his throne, and keep his daughter close to my hand.”

Athelstan brought his fist to bear upon the man’s chin. “You profane the ritual!  Thor will strike you down and Odin will have your heart!” he spat, even as he was made to bend backwards by Sven’s grasp.

Laughing, Sven twisted his hand and forced Athelstan’s silence. “The Gods favor those who win by strength. There will be none who can stop me.”

There was a flash of silver and Sven froze.

“Oh, really?”

The knife at Sven’s throat drew a bit of blood. Athelstan stared, astonished, at the man who held it.

“Rollo?”

 

 

There was a great disturbance on the other side of the tent doors. Shouts went up, fists met flesh. Athelstan watched the linen sway until he heard a thump and a groan. Then it quieted. He waited with his breath held, only releasing hit when Rollo’s face appeared at the opening. He nodded to Athelstan and set a new carafe of ale on the table. The food had been swept away by Sven’s violence, but it was only a small matter.

It had been five years since Rollo had been in Kattegat. He’d left under suspicion, but no one could prove his intentions were nefarious and Ragnar had defended his brother as best he could. He’d ridden out in the night and no one had heard his name since. Ragnar had taken his absence hard. It had been many months of waiting to see the light in his eyes once more.

“Where have you been?” Athelstan asked, curiosity finally overwhelming his surprise.

Rollo smiled and it was the same smile, hot and dangerous. Athelstan had thought it sinister once. Now he saw a dark humor, and little in the way of sinister. The man knelt, took up the fallen cup, and poured a healthy draught. He passed it to Athelstan as he answered.

“I have been in Normandy. There is much turmoil there, and I found good use for my skills.”

“You do, ah,” Athelstan stammered. “You look well.”

Passing well, in fact. There was no lengthy mane falling down his shoulders, no rough beard on his face. He wore his hair in the style of the South, cropped close to his jaw where he kept his face bare. He wore no gold or silver, but his clothes were finely made, light in weave and delicately sewn. He looked high-born, as indeed he was, but it was the look of the Southlands. Here he was still  _utlaga._ An outlaw, in self-imposed exile.

“I  _am_  well. I lead their forces against invaders from the East. I’m good at it,” he said, taking the ale back. He drank it quickly. “I have a wife, and she has given me a son.”

Athelstan was gladdened to hear it. “A son, how joyous, Rollo! May the Gods bless him.”

Rollo sat himself on the carpet properly and took Athelstan’s hands. “I pray to the Christian God, now. His Son, the Holy Mother, and His saints.”

It took a moment for Athelstan to work through his words. “You…you no longer follow the  _Aesir_?”

The man shook his head with a sheepish grin and a shrug. “You look a proper Northman,” he teased.

Glancing down at his state, wrapped only in a wool blanket, his long hair tangled and the braid half undone, and said, “Hardly proper.”

Fingers closed over his armband, the testament of his freedom. “You wear this, it is enough.”

“How did you know to come?”

“I had a dream, the same dream three nights running,” Rollo answered, resting his elbows on his knees and chin on his clasped fingers. At Athelstan’s smirk, the man laughed. “I may not follow Odin now, but I am not fool enough to ignore his signs. I left after the third night and rode the coast until I found a ship bearing north. They brought me and two others, trusted men who fight by my side. I arrived only last night.”

They were silent for a moment. Athelstan looked away and took a deep breath.

“Are you the sixth?” he asked, eyes still on the floor.

Rollo nodded.

Athelstan smiled, even as tears threatened. “Then we should begin. They will be coming for me, soon.”

It was strange, and more strangely right, to feel those hands in his hair. Rollo began the pledge. “Tell your master” But he stopped and looked into Athelstan’s eyes. “Tell my brother that I do this for love of him, and that his request has been granted.”

Before Athelstan could ask, Rollo’s mouth was on him, and it was good. His touch was gentle and strong, the power tempered now and so much like Ragnar that it hurt. Athelstan was shaking when the kiss ended. He watched Rollo stand to remove his clothing, laying himself bare to the soles of his feet. When Rollo held out his hands, Athelstan took them and followed to the bed.

As brothers they had competed in all things, and it was to Athelstan’s benefit that they shared many of their talents. He was propped in Rollo’s lap, his back to the other’s chest, and the arms that held him were as Ragnar’s, long and warm and so comforting. He sobbed once and Rollo swept one hand over his forehead, pressing so that his face rested in the crook of the man’s neck. “Close your eyes, Athelstan. Think not of me, if it will help.”

Athelstan groaned when he was entered, tender and used and still hollow inside. In his mind’s eye it was Ragnar who bit and tongued at his throat. Who took his hips and moved them at his leisure. Who had him crying out his pleasure, the fingers of one hand wrapped around his cock and the other pressing at his lips.

Throughout the whole of it, Rollo whispered into his ear words relayed in a dream.

“I’m waiting, Athelstan. Come to me. I’m waiting.”

 

 

As carefully as Floki had uncovered him, Rollo wrapped and clothed him. His hair was loosened, combed, and put into braids befitting a warrior. Once in his own garments, Rollo had demanded proper shoes be brought, as well as a pair of trousers. He scowled at the men, still commanding despite all of his finery.

The man currently knelt at his feet, lacing the leather over his warm, woolen socks. “Fools,” Rollo growled. “To think they did this to honor Ragnar. My brother would have their hearts on a platter.”

Athelstan gave him a crooked grin. “I think they meant to make it easier. For the men, I mean. If I looked more like a maid…”

“They would find their cocks instead of their own asses? Bah, men need no such help.” Rollo looked up at him with a scowl, but there was warmth in his gaze. “You were always comely enough to set their tongues wagging.”

Remembering those early days, Athelstan felt his cheeks warm. “I was just a boy then. No beard to speak of, and I wore a robe much like this.”

“I don’t remember it being so thin,” Rollo mused, tying the final knot. They were both smiling, the years having softened the harshness of those times.

“Rollo, what of Sven?” Athelstan asked, sober now.

“He will be no trouble, have no worries,” the other answered, standing to retrieve his cloak.

“Will you…could you, please…” He hated to ask, knowing that home and hearth was far from where Rollo stood.

Fingers grazed his cheek. “I will be remaining, for a while, at least. It was asked of me.”

“By whom?” Athelstan could not imagine Bjorn asking for help, much less Lagertha.

“By Ragnar,” Rollo answered, still smiling. “It was in the dream. I had it many times as I traveled here. I was to see to their safety and comfort. I was to see to you. He did not want your good nature taken for granted, for he knew it would be you facing this. To stay by his side.”

Athelstan took his hand and held it. “Thank you.”

 Rollo dropped a kiss to his head, rested a cheek there for a moment. “Give this kiss to my brother, please. I remember a time when he cherished it.”

“He always cherished it, Rollo. Always.”

They spoke no farewells, for one could never tell what path life would take. Maybe their gods were alike, after all.

 

 

Athelstan tucked Arne's rune into his left leg wrapping as the drumming began.

He breathed deep, soaking in the feeling of air, of warmth and scent and all the textures of being alive. He trailed his fingers over the linen, the furs, tapped the golden cup to hear it sing. Pulling it close to his heart, he stepped out into the snow.

Unlike his walk to the tent, his steps now were steady. He did not wait for his escort, did not allow them to take his arms. He went straight-away to the raised platform where the Angel of Death awaited. The striking of the shields grew strident, more incensed, as he grew closer. When he stood before the tall, pale woman, he removed his arm band and placed it in her hands.

She, in turn, gave him the poison. Its purpose was two-fold; to make certain the sacrifice suffered not the flames, and to open the Middle Eye to the Realm beyond. He stared at it, dark green and bitter smelling, barely a swallow in a hammered silver chalice. It tasted of grass and berries and was not as foul as he’d imagined. After he’d taken it, he stared at the ship, laden with carcasses of duck, hen, horse, and goat. Blood had run down the sides, marking it and everything it took with it to Asgard as sacred.

Ragnar lay atop a fine, tall pyre, in clothes never worn. Even in death, he was beautiful.

Athelstan began sway on his feet, the potent mixture taking only moments to affect him. He was grasped by his waist and legs, and hands braced his feet. They lifted him so that he seemed to hover above the silent gathering. He heard a voice from far away call out to him. “Tell us what you see!”

He saw faces, swimming faces, with eyes wide and…waiting…

Then they were gone.

“I see before me a field of tall grasses, laden with golden blooms.”

Athelstan’s head swam as he was lowered and raised again.

He gasped. “I see a mountain beyond the field, and a great hall upon the mountain. It shimmers in the sun as if made of gold.”

The first pain struck him as he was brought down. “It hurts,” he groaned into the clutch.

“Be strong. It will be over soon.” Floki kissed his cheek before he was lifted again. It felt soft and insubstantial.

He was lurching in their hold as they lifted him once more. He groaned, speaking only when he heard the call. “What do you see?”

His eyes opened.

“Ragnar…”

Smiling, eyes flashing like violet fire and in raiment more than kingly, Ragnar beckoned.

“Ragnar!” he cried, and the vision faded.

He was lowered, but not released. “No, please, let me see him again,” he wept as he was handed aloft to the boat.

“Hush, hush,” Floki soothed him, stroking his face. Looking at him was like seeing a reflection in the water, the touch of his fingers the wash of a gentle summer rain. “You are almost there, Athelstan.”

The shields were pounded with fury, so loud now he could hear nothing else. He could not move save to turn his head and there, there was Ragnar beside him. Grey-tinged and silent, but a comfort still. His gut twisted again and he sobbed, but his throat was too tight and he could not make a sound.

His eyes sought aid. Surely someone would see he needed help.

There was Floki again, smiling kindly. He put out his hand. Waited.

The pain in his stomach doubled, tripled, slicing up into his heart. He shuddered. He kicked. Tried to cry out past the seize of his throat…

_…and then all he heard was leaves rustling in the breeze._ _“You did well.”_

_It was Floki, but not his Floki. The hair was too full, too long. The stature too great. Moss-green eyes glowed with the light of the moon._

_Athelstan held his hand. He did not remember taking it._

_Looking behind him, he saw another Floki, the one he knew. He was the last one standing over a body that was taking its last tortured breath. That Floki leaned over, took up the hand of the dying one and draped it over a still form beside it._

_“Don’t look back. All is now looking forward.”_

_He let himself be turned away as flames rose around that body. Floki was right. It wasn’t important anymore._

_“You can call me my proper name now, you know,” he was told. With a wink._

_“If it’s all the same, I like Floki,” Athelstan answered._

_Laughing, the other clapped him on the shoulder. “You are never dull. I look forward to our meeting again.”_

_“Where are you going?” Athelstan felt the loss keenly, turned in a circle to seek his companion._

_“I straddle two realms. Best not to be caught climbing the fence.”_

_He was in a field of grass that nearly reached his hips. Lovely flowers brushed his fingers and he felt terribly, horribly alone. “Hello? Is anyone here?”_

_“Athelstan!”_

_It startled him like a shout. It could have been a whisper._

_He turned._

_“Athelstan, come to me!”_

_Joy had never felt this wondrous._

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> hlautgif - blood sacrifices were called hlaut; gif added is “blood gift”
> 
> ergi - there were no words for ‘gay’, as they had no concept of it. this meant ‘other’ and was used for male practitioners of what was considered female magic, as well as those who simply did not fit the common mold.


End file.
